The festive red lanterns and ubiquitous heart-shaped chocolates that flood Shanghai shops in early February, ostensibly for Valentine’s Day, often feel more like a marketing manager’s hopeful projection than a reflection of lived reality for many young urbanites. Stroll through a trendy mall, and you’re just as likely to see groups of friends sharing a “single’s feast” at a hotpot restaurant, or individuals engrossed in their phones, as you are to witness overt displays of romantic affection. It’s a subtle but palpable shift, a quiet turning away from the once-assumed path of courtship, marriage, and family. This observation is a window into a much larger, more complex phenomenon gripping China: what many are calling a “性萧条” (xìng xiāotiáo) – a “sex recession.”
This term, however, doesn’t just denote a decline in sexual activity. It’s a catch-all for a constellation of interconnected trends: a dramatic fall in marriage rates, plummeting birth figures, a growing disinterest or ambivalence among young people towards traditional romantic relationships, and a reduced frequency of sexual intimacy even for those in partnerships. For an American audience, understanding this profound social transformation in China is crucial. It’s not merely an exotic curiosity; it’s a case study in how rapid modernization, intense economic pressures, evolving gender dynamics, and the pervasive influence of technology can reshape the most fundamental aspects of human life – love, intimacy, and the family – within a nation of immense global significance. While some of the underlying anxieties, like economic uncertainty or work-life imbalance, might resonate with experiences in the West, the Chinese context, with its unique cultural legacies, societal expectations, and recent economic trajectory, imbues these trends with a distinct character and scale.
The roots of this “intimacy deficit” are manifold and deeply intertwined. They stretch from the grueling “workism” culture that consumes young professionals’ time and energy, to the daunting economic realities that make traditional family formation seem like an unaffordable luxury. They involve the transformative impact of female empowerment and higher education, which has led many young women to reassess their priorities and expectations. And they encompass subtle psychological shifts towards individualism, perhaps even a touch of disillusionment reminiscent of Japan’s “low desire society,” all mediated through the complex, often contradictory, lens of modern technology.
The raw numbers paint a stark picture of this changing landscape. Marriage registrations in China have seen a precipitous decline. After peaking at over 13 million in 2013, they fell below 10 million in 2019, dropped under 8 million in 2021, and hit a low of 6.835 million in 2022. While 2023 saw a slight rebound to 7.68 million pairs, possibly due to couples formalizing unions delayed by the pandemic, projections for 2024 indicate a further sharp decrease to 6.106 million.1 This dramatic, albeit somewhat fluctuating, downward trajectory in people choosing to marry is a clear signal of a major societal recalibration.
| Indicator | Data Point | Source(s) |
| National Marriage Registrations (Millions of Pairs) | 2019: 9.47M; 2021: 7.64M (approx.); 2022: 6.835M; 2023: 7.68M; 2024: 6.106M (projected) | 1 |
| National Birth Rate (per 1,000 population) | 1991: 19.7‰; 2021: 7.52‰; 2022: 6.77‰ | 3 |
| Total Fertility Rate (Children per woman) | Approx. 1.0 (recent estimate) | 5 |
| Youth Not Intending to Marry / Unsure (%) | 34% (8.9% “won’t marry,” 25.1% “unsure”) – 2021 survey | 6 |
| Single Adult Population (Millions) | 240M in 2018 | 7 |
Table 1: China’s Shifting Landscape of Intimacy & Family (Key Indicators)
Concurrently, the nation’s birth rate has plummeted. From 19.7 births per thousand people in 1991, it fell to 7.52‰ in 2021 and further to 6.77‰ in 2022.3 The total fertility rate, a more direct measure of average births per woman, is reported to have fallen to a startling 1.0, well below the 1.5 mark considered a warning line for severe demographic imbalance and significantly under the 2.1 replacement level needed to maintain population stability.5 Underscoring these demographic shifts, a 2021 survey by CCTV, China’s state broadcaster, found that a significant 34% of young people no longer view marriage as a certainty, with 8.9% stating they “won’t marry” and another 25.1% “unsure” if they ever will.6
What might initially seem like a collection of private, individual choices regarding sex, relationships, and family planning, when viewed against these stark demographic realities, reveals itself as something far more profound. These collective decisions are not made in a vacuum; they are direct reflections of how young Chinese people perceive their lives, their opportunities, the pressures they face, and the desirability of traditional life paths. The “sex recession,” therefore, serves as a sensitive societal barometer, an indicator of underlying economic anxieties, evolving cultural values, and the deep-seated stresses experienced by a generation navigating a rapidly changing China. The trends fueling this intimacy deficit are inextricably linked to the nation’s broader socio-economic health and its future trajectory, offering a crucial lens through which to understand the lived realities and aspirations of its youth.
A defining feature of modern urban China, particularly for its ambitious youth, is the pervasive culture of overwork, often encapsulated by the infamous term “996.” This shorthand, referring to a work schedule of 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., 6 days a week, gained international notoriety in 2019 through the “996.ICU” GitHub project, a protest initiated by tech workers against grueling hours.9 While most prominent in the hyper-competitive tech sector, this ethos of long hours bleeds into many white-collar professions, reflecting a broader societal phenomenon: “工作主义” (gōngzuò zhǔyì), or “workism.” As a Peking University report highlights, workism is more than just logging extensive hours; it’s a value system that elevates career achievement and unwavering dedication to one’s job to a primary source of identity and life’s purpose.10
The extent to which work dominates the aspirations of Chinese youth is strikingly illustrated by a 2018 Pew Research Center survey. It found that an overwhelming 95% of young Chinese respondents considered “finding a job or career they enjoy” to be “extremely important” or “very important.” This figure significantly overshadowed “getting married” (47%) and even “helping people in need” (81%).10 Such a hierarchy of values clearly indicates the immense pressure, both internal and external, to succeed professionally.
This intense focus on career, however, comes at a considerable cost to personal lives, particularly in the realm of intimacy and relationships. Research conducted by Peking University, analyzing data from the 2020 “Chinese Private Life Survey” with a focus on college-educated young adults aged 18-35, provides critical insights into these connections.10 For young men, working overtime was found to reduce sexual satisfaction, an effect primarily mediated by the adverse impact of long hours on their physical and mental health. The study quantified this, noting that the indirect effect of health deterioration accounted for 45% of the total negative impact on sexual satisfaction.10
For unmarried young women, the consequences of overtime work manifest differently but are no less significant. The research revealed that excessive work hours significantly lower their intention to have children. This isn’t solely attributed to health concerns or the quality of their relationships; rather, it appears to stem from a fundamental conflict between a high commitment to their careers – a hallmark of workism – and the perceived demands and sacrifices associated with motherhood.10 The very drive that propels them in their professional lives seems to simultaneously make the prospect of starting a family less appealing or feasible.
Paradoxically, the Peking University study also uncovered that a lack of work – encompassing unemployment or part-time employment – is associated with less frequent and less satisfying sexual lives for both men and women, as well as a diminished desire for childbearing.10 This suggests that the issue is more complex than simply being “too busy.” The pressures of economic precarity and job insecurity evidently cast their own shadow over intimate lives.
The distribution of work hours also shows a gendered pattern. Among the college-educated youth surveyed, men were more likely to be overtime workers, with 55.7% of male respondents falling into this category compared to 38.4% of female respondents. Conversely, women were more likely to experience fewer work hours, with 14.7% of female respondents working less than standard hours, compared to only 4.6% of male respondents.10
To illustrate, consider “Zhang Wei,” a composite character representing many young software engineers in a tech hub like Shenzhen. He might dream of finding a partner, but after a 70-hour work week, battling exhaustion and the constant pressure of project deadlines, the idea of swiping through Tantan profiles or engaging in meaningful conversation feels like another monumental task. Or picture “Chen Yue,” a marketing executive in Shanghai. She feels the societal expectation to marry and start a family, yet she is also fiercely protective of her hard-won career advancements. For her, marriage and children might seem less like a joyful next step and more like a potential derailment from her professional trajectory.
These individual struggles reflect a broader “burnout barrier” to intimacy. Young Chinese, especially the educated cohort who have invested significantly in their careers, find themselves in a difficult bind. On one hand, excessive work, driven by ambition and the “996” culture, leads to physical and mental exhaustion, leaving little time or energy for dating, nurturing relationships, or even maintaining one’s own well-being, which is foundational to a healthy sex life. The intense focus on career, particularly for women, can create a direct clash with traditional timelines for marriage and childbearing, leading to a conscious or subconscious postponement or rejection of these life stages.
On the other hand, the finding that insufficient work also negatively impacts sexual life and fertility intentions is profoundly telling.10 It indicates that economic stability and a sense of purpose derived from employment are crucial for fostering the confidence and security needed to build intimate relationships and consider family formation. For men, societal expectations often tie masculinity and provider status to employment; joblessness or underemployment can be particularly damaging to self-esteem and, by extension, libido. For women, a lack of stable income can make the prospect of supporting a family, or even oneself comfortably, a daunting prospect that overshadows romantic aspirations.
Thus, young Chinese individuals are often caught in a damaging double whammy. Overwork burns them out, eroding the space for intimacy, while insufficient work or job insecurity generates profound stress and a sense of inadequacy that similarly stifles desire and discourages family formation. This pressure is perhaps most acute for college-educated youth. Having invested heavily in their education, they face immense pressure to validate that investment through career success, amplifying the allure of “workism” and the willingness to sacrifice personal life. Simultaneously, higher education often correlates with more modern, individualistic values and a greater awareness of alternative life paths, making them more likely to critically evaluate and potentially reject traditional family structures if they conflict with personal or professional goals. The “sex recession,” therefore, may be particularly pronounced among the very segment of the population that society relies on for future innovation and leadership, highlighting a deep societal tension.
| Pressure Point / Factor | Manifestation / Impact on Intimate Life | Illustrative Data / Source Snippet |
| “Workism” Ideology | Work enjoyment (95%) prioritized far above marriage (47%) in life goals. | 10 (Pew 2018) |
| Overtime Culture (General) | 47.1% of college-educated youth work overtime (Men: 55.7%, Women: 38.4%). | 10 (Peking Uni 2020) |
| Overtime’s Impact on Men | Reduced sexual satisfaction, primarily due to negative effects on physical and mental health. | 10 (Peking Uni 2020) |
| Overtime’s Impact on Unmarried Women | Significantly lower fertility intention, suggesting conflict between high work commitment and perceived demands of motherhood. | 10 (Peking Uni 2020) |
| Insufficient Work Hours | Associated with less frequent and less satisfying sexual life for both men and women; lower desire for childbearing. | 10 (Peking Uni 2020) |
| High Cost of Living (e.g., Housing) | Housing costs often viewed as a prerequisite for marriage, contributing to financial stress and potentially reinforcing status-based matchmaking. | 11 |
Table 2: The “Work-Life-Love” Imbalance: Pressures on Young Chinese Professionals
Beyond the consuming demands of work, the sheer economic weight of establishing a life and family in contemporary China casts a long shadow over the romantic aspirations of its youth. The “三座大山” (sān zuò dàshān) – literally the “three great mountains” of housing, education (for future children), and healthcare – are frequently invoked to describe the formidable financial burdens that young people face. Among these, the exorbitant cost of housing in major cities stands out as a primary deterrent to marriage.11 For many, particularly men, owning a property is not just a financial goal but a deeply ingrained societal expectation, often viewed as a non-negotiable prerequisite for marriage. This pressure is so significant that research from Peking University by Professor Zhang Qinghua has found that high housing prices tend to intensify the practice of “门当户对” (mén dāng hù duì), or marrying into families of similar socio-economic standing, as couples and their families pool resources to meet these steep requirements.11 Adding to this financial strain is the tradition of “彩礼” (cǎilǐ), or bride price, which in some regions can reach sums that are crippling for an average young man and his family.
In this climate of high material expectations, the once-romantic notion of “裸婚” (luǒhūn), or “naked marriage” – marrying without owning a house or car, and often without an expensive wedding ceremony – seems to be a fading dream for many. What might have been seen by some as a defiant embrace of love over materialism is increasingly perceived as an admission of financial inadequacy or simply an unviable option. The societal pressure to provide, coupled with the sheer cost of setting up an independent household, makes “naked marriage” a difficult path. As one report notes, the increasing material conditions demanded for marriage are a significant reason why many young people delay marriage or dare not marry at all.12
These economic anxieties are a fertile ground for the emergence of attitudes like “躺平” (tǎng píng), or “lying flat,” and the pervasive feeling of “内卷” (nèijuǎn), or “involution.” “Lying flat” signifies a conscious withdrawal from the relentless pursuit of conventional markers of success – a refusal to participate in the hyper-competitive societal grind.13 “Involution,” on the other hand, describes the exhausting experience of being trapped in a zero-sum competition where immense effort yields diminishing returns. These sentiments are not just abstract philosophical stances; they have direct implications for decisions about relationships and family. If the “game” of career advancement and wealth accumulation feels rigged or overwhelmingly stressful, then the “game” of dating, marriage, and raising children – all of which demand significant financial, temporal, and emotional resources – may also seem like a burden too heavy to bear. Indeed, a study from Renmin University indicated that individuals who identify with the “lying flat” ethos exhibit the lowest intentions to marry and have children.14 This mindset is often intertwined with “丧文化” (sàng wénhuà), a “culture of despair” or demotivation, reflecting feelings of helplessness in the face of perceived social class solidification and unequal resource distribution.15
A related concern, particularly among financially independent young people, is the specter of “post-marriage impoverishment.” Many, especially women, express a fear that marriage will lead to a decline in their personal quality of life, financial autonomy, and freedom.12 This isn’t solely about the direct costs of marriage and family but also about the perceived loss of personal time, space, and control over one’s own resources and life choices.
Ultimately, these factors contribute to a scenario where economic rationality often appears to trump romantic idealism in the decision-making processes of young Chinese individuals. They are increasingly making pragmatic, almost cold, calculations when considering marriage and family. The perceived costs are immense: the financial burdens of housing, child-rearing, and potentially a bride price; the loss of personal freedom and time; and the potential for career sacrifices, especially for women.11 Simultaneously, the traditional benefits of marriage – such as economic security, enhanced social status, or guaranteed companionship – are perceived as less certain in modern society or are potentially achievable through alternative means, such as a successful career for financial security, or robust friendships and personal hobbies for companionship. When the anticipated costs seem to vastly outweigh the potential benefits, a rational actor, particularly one influenced by modern individualistic thought, might logically choose to delay or abstain from marriage and the intense intimacy it traditionally implies. Decisions about love, partnership, and family are thus increasingly filtered through an economic lens, a “cost-benefit analysis” approach that is becoming a defining characteristic of this generation’s approach to intimacy.
The common, often darkly humorous, refrain “不结婚是因为穷” (bù jiéhūn shì yīnwèi qióng) – “I’m not marrying because I’m poor” – reflects a stark reality for a significant portion of young people.12 This isn’t just a general complaint about economic hardship; it points to how specific material thresholds, like the extremely high cost of urban housing 11, function as gatekeepers to marriage. If homeownership is a de facto requirement, then those from less affluent backgrounds or those struggling in a precarious job market can feel effectively priced out of marriage, or at least the socially sanctioned version of it. This reality reinforces the trend of “门当户对” (marrying within one’s socio-economic class) 11, meaning that marriage itself can become a marker and perpetuator of economic inequality. The economic barriers to marriage and family formation are not evenly distributed; they disproportionately affect those with fewer resources, potentially leading to a widening gap in family structures, relationship opportunities, and, by extension, sexual and intimate experiences along socio-economic lines. The “sex recession” and the decline in marriage are therefore not just about individual choices but are also deeply intertwined with broader issues of social equity and access to traditional life paths.
A pivotal force reshaping China’s landscape of love, marriage, and family is the remarkable ascent of its female population in education and economic independence. Chinese women have made extraordinary strides in higher education; by 2023, they constituted 54.4% of all university students in the country.16 Research from the Shanghai University of Finance and Economics further corroborates this trend, noting that women have surpassed men in overall higher education attainment.17 This educational achievement has translated into increased participation and ambition in the professional workforce, granting many young women unprecedented economic autonomy. This contemporary reality stands in stark contrast to historical norms, and understanding the evolution of women’s status since the founding of the People’s Republic, including legal reforms promoting marriage freedom and gender equality, provides a crucial backdrop for appreciating the magnitude of this shift.18
With this rise in education and economic power comes a profound evolution in what young women seek in partnerships. The traditional emphasis in 择偶观 (zé’ǒu guān – mate selection criteria) on a partner’s material conditions – the proverbial house, car, and stable income – is increasingly giving way to a desire for deeper, more intrinsic qualities. “灵魂共鸣” (línghún gòngmíng), or “soul resonance,” has become a new buzzword, signifying a yearning for emotional connection, shared values, good character, and mutual understanding.16 While a 2018 survey indicated that “character” (valued by 84.9%) and “personality” (71.22%) were top criteria for both sexes, it also noted that men still placed significant importance on “looks” (50.15%), while women prioritized “ability” (54.89%) in a partner.19 Nevertheless, the overarching trend, especially among educated urban women, is a move away from purely pragmatic “条件匹配” (tiáojiàn pǐpèi – condition matching). For many of these women, marriage is transitioning from a perceived necessity – whether for financial security or social validation – to a deliberate choice, contingent on finding a partner who offers genuine companionship and intellectual equality.6
This new calculus of desire often leads to a conscious decision to delay marriage or embrace singlehood. Many women are actively prioritizing their careers and personal development over rushing into matrimony.16 The “motherhood penalty” is a significant and valid concern; women fear, often justifiably, that marriage and particularly childbirth will negatively impact their career progression. As one highly educated woman articulated, “If I get married and have children right after my master’s at 26, my competitiveness in the workplace might plummet”.16 Beyond career considerations, there’s a greater reluctance to compromise the personal freedom, quality of life, and autonomy that singlehood can offer, especially if marriage is perceived as involving a disproportionate burden of domestic and emotional labor.12
Statistics consistently reveal a significant “marriage enthusiasm gap” between the genders. A 2021 CCTV report found that 43.92% of young women surveyed were either “not marrying” or “unsure if they will marry,” a figure a substantial 19.29 percentage points higher than that for young men.6 Another report paints an even starker picture, with male marriage intent recorded at 68.9% compared to only 31.1% for females, and women constituting a commanding 64.6% of those actively choosing to remain single.16 Further buttressing this trend, research from the Shanghai University of Finance and Economics suggests that for highly educated women, remaining single can actually enhance their subjective well-being and happiness, challenging the traditional assumption that marriage is the sole or primary path to fulfillment.17
As more educated and economically independent women seek partners who meet their higher emotional and intellectual standards – or choose to opt out of the marriage market altogether if such partners are not readily found – the traditional dynamics of courtship and marriage are being fundamentally disrupted. The old assumptions about who marries whom, when, and for what reasons are increasingly being challenged, leading to a palpable shift in power dynamics.
The empowerment of women, therefore, acts as a significant catalyst for the demographic changes being observed. The substantial increase in women’s educational attainment and their subsequent economic independence grant them unprecedented agency in their life choices. This newfound agency allows them to redefine their priorities, often placing personal fulfillment, career development, and self-realization on par with, or even above, traditional societal expectations of marriage and motherhood. Consequently, they are more selective in choosing partners, seeking that elusive “soul resonance” rather than settling for mere “condition matching”.16 They are also less willing to enter into marriages that they perceive might compromise their autonomy, career ambitions, or overall quality of life. This exercise of choice, while a positive indicator of individual empowerment and societal progress, directly contributes to later marriages, fewer marriages overall, and consequently, lower birth rates – trends that are viewed with considerable concern from a national demographic perspective. The “sex recession” and its associated demographic shifts are, to a significant extent, driven by women exercising their hard-won right to choose.
For many modern Chinese women, “opting out” of or delaying marriage is not an emotional or irrational decision, but a highly rational one. If traditional marriage is still widely perceived as involving a disproportionate share of domestic labor and childcare responsibilities for women – and the Peking University study did note that women’s higher involvement in household chores was linked to greater sexual dissatisfaction and lower intimate relationship satisfaction 10 – and if the “motherhood penalty” in the workplace remains a significant barrier to career advancement 16, and if marriage itself is seen as potentially leading to a loss of personal autonomy and a diminished quality of life 12, then for highly educated, economically independent women who value their careers and personal freedom 17, choosing to delay marriage, remain single, or only marry if they find a truly egalitarian partnership becomes an entirely logical and self-preserving decision. The statistics showing significantly lower marriage intent among women 6 strongly support this interpretation. The traditional model of marriage is proving increasingly unappealing or unviable for a growing cohort of these women. The “sex recession” is, in part, a reflection of a female-led reassessment of what constitutes a desirable and fulfilling life, and the terms under which they are willing to enter into long-term partnerships.
As observers try to make sense of the shifting attitudes towards love, sex, and marriage among China’s youth, comparisons are inevitably drawn with neighboring Japan, a nation that has been grappling with similar trends for a longer period. The concept of a “低欲望社会” (dī yùwàng shèhuì), or “Low Desire Society,” popularized by Japanese economist and management guru Kenichi Ohmae, offers a compelling, if unsettling, framework.13 Born out of Japan’s prolonged economic stagnation, often referred to as its “lost decades,” this term describes a society where young people increasingly display a lack of interest in conventional life goals: marrying, having children, pursuing ambitious careers, or accumulating material possessions like cars and luxury goods. It signifies a general sense of diminished ambition and a turning away from the traditional markers of success.13 Associated phenomena include persistently low consumption, a general aversion to risk-taking, and the rise of “宅” (zhái) culture – a term roughly equivalent to “otaku” or “hikikomori,” describing individuals who prefer to stay at home and engage in solitary pursuits.20
More recently, Japanese author Akira Tachibana, in his 2021 book The Unreasonable Game Society, argued that Japan’s social landscape has evolved beyond mere “low desire.” He posits that social life itself has transformed into an “unreasonable game” – one that is perceived by many young people as impossible to win, regardless of effort.13 This perception, according to Tachibana, fuels profound anxiety, hopelessness, and even despair among a generation who feel that the traditional, once-reliable pathways to success – diligent study leading to a prestigious university, followed by employment in a top company, ensuring a stable and prosperous life – have crumbled.13 In Japan, contributing factors to this sense of an “unreasonable game” include the relentless pressures of globalization, the escalating demands of a “knowledge society” requiring ever-higher skills, and the immense fiscal burden placed on the younger, working generation by a super-aging population requiring extensive social support.13
The parallels with emerging trends in China are hard to ignore. The popularization of terms like “躺平” (tǎng píng – lying flat), “咸鱼” (xiányú – salted fish, colloquially meaning someone with no ambition or drive), and “佛系” (fóxì – Buddha-like, signifying a calm, detached, and unperturbed approach to life’s struggles and outcomes) resonates strongly with the ethos of Japan’s “low desire”.13 Public discussions and online sentiment in China increasingly feature voices expressing a disinclination towards falling in love, getting married, or having children. This raises a critical question: Are these just fleeting internet memes and expressions of temporary disillusionment, or do they signify deeper, more enduring shifts in the social mentality of Chinese youth, mirroring some aspects of the Japanese experience?
While the parallels are striking, it is crucial to acknowledge the significant differences and nuances between the Chinese and Japanese contexts. China, despite its slowing growth and rising inequalities, is still experiencing overall economic expansion, unlike Japan’s decades of near-stagnation. The role of the state in China is far more pervasive, societal expectations carry different weights, and the demographic legacy of the one-child policy has created a unique societal structure. Furthermore, the coping mechanisms observed among Japanese Gen Z – such as a pronounced focus on present comfort and “small certainties,” strong social and moral consumption tendencies (e.g., preferring ethical brands even if more expensive), and a deep engagement with “virtual life” as a space for connection and identity formation 13 – may or may not find direct equivalents among Chinese youth, who are navigating their own distinct set of pressures and opportunities.
Despite these differences, the experiences of Japan and China suggest that certain shared East Asian cultural underpinnings – such as a strong societal emphasis on education, intense collective pressures to conform and succeed, and historical patriarchal norms that are now in flux – can, when combined with hyper-competitive social environments and significant economic anxieties, produce similar outcomes. Whether these anxieties stem from prolonged stagnation, as in Japan, or from issues of precarity, inequality, and the high cost of living, as in China, the result can be a withdrawal by youth from traditional life goals, a sense of disillusionment, and a fundamental re-evaluation of what constitutes a meaningful life, including the roles of marriage and family. China is not necessarily fated to replicate Japan’s exact “low desire” trajectory. However, Japan’s experience provides a valuable, if cautionary, case study of the kinds of societal stresses that can lead to such outcomes. Observing how Japanese youth have adapted – for instance, by retreating into virtual worlds or prioritizing immediate personal well-being over long-term societal expectations 13 – might offer predictive insights into potential coping mechanisms or evolving lifestyles among their Chinese counterparts.
The term “low desire” itself invites a deeper interpretation. It can be seen as a passive state – a consequence of burnout, exhaustion, and a feeling of hopelessness when faced with an “unreasonable game” where the rules seem rigged against individual success or well-being.13 However, practices like “lying flat” 14 also contain an element of conscious choice, a deliberate decision to opt out of a system perceived as exploitative, unrewarding, or simply not worth the immense personal cost. This suggests that what appears on the surface as “low desire” might, in part, be an active, albeit quiet and individualized, form of resistance against overwhelming societal pressures and expectations. It can be a refusal to play a game deemed unwinnable or one whose prizes – traditional marriage, family, and material success – are no longer seen as sufficiently valuable to justify the sacrifices required. Understanding the degree of agency within these trends is critical. If it is primarily a symptom of societal dysfunction, it points to a crisis of well-being that demands structural reforms. If, however, it also contains elements of strategic withdrawal or resistance, it implies a profound critique of the current social and economic order by the younger generation, signaling a need for a more fundamental rethinking of societal goals, values, and the very definition of a “good life.”
In China’s rapidly urbanizing and increasingly atomized society, technology, particularly the ubiquitous dating app, has emerged as a primary intermediary in the quest for connection. Platforms like Momo, Tantan, and Soul have seen widespread adoption, especially among the under-35 demographic, offering a seemingly endless pool of potential partners for young people whose real-world social circles may be shrinking or stagnant.21 These apps cater to different niches and user preferences. Momo, one of the older platforms in this space, tends to have a user base that is predominantly male (around 75%) and has historically emphasized appearance-based matching.21 Tantan, often compared to Tinder, also prioritizes visual appeal but boasts a more balanced gender ratio, with female users accounting for approximately 42.2%.21 A newer entrant, Soul, has gained significant traction, particularly among a younger audience (with roughly one in three users under the age of 24), by focusing on personality, shared interests, and “soulful” connections, even allowing users to interact without initially revealing real photographs.21 This shift is noteworthy, as surveys indicate a growing preference among younger Chinese (those born between 1995 and 2010) for finding connections based on common interests (over 40%) rather than prioritizing physical appearance (only 14.8%).21
However, this digital avenue to romance is a decidedly double-edged sword. While apps offer unprecedented access to potential dates, they also come laden with frustrations. Users frequently report experiencing superficial interactions, the disorienting phenomenon of “ghosting” (where a connection abruptly ceases all communication), and the overwhelming feeling of “choice paralysis” when faced with countless profiles. More troublingly, these platforms have become fertile ground for various forms of deception. Fraud and scams, particularly sophisticated “love scams” or “pig butchering scams” where individuals feign romantic interest to lure victims into fraudulent investment schemes, are rampant.21 Privacy leaks are another persistent concern. The anonymity afforded by these platforms, while sometimes desired, can also make regulation and accountability difficult, eroding trust not only in the apps themselves but in online interactions more broadly. Furthermore, a significant structural challenge for these dating apps is the “destination problem”: they often serve merely as introductory platforms. If a successful match is made, the couple will typically migrate their communication to established, multi-purpose social media platforms like WeChat, leading to high user churn. As one analysis puts it, if the app’s matching is too effective, users leave quickly; if it’s ineffective, they also leave out of frustration.21
Parallel to the rise of dating apps, a new social trend known as “搭子” (dāzi) culture has emerged. This involves young people seeking companions for specific activities – a “饭搭子” (fàn dāzi) for meals, a “电影搭子” (diànyǐng dāzi) for movies, or a “游戏搭子” (yóuxì dāzi) for games – without the obligations, emotional depth, or romantic expectations of a traditional relationship.24 This reflects a preference for “comfortable,” low-risk, and clearly demarcated social interactions. “Dazi” relationships provide companionship and shared experiences but deliberately sidestep the perceived complexities, commitments, and potential emotional burdens of dating and romance.24 It’s about sharing an activity, not necessarily sharing a life.
These online and offline social strategies are often responses to very real practical barriers and anxieties surrounding traditional dating. Surveys of young Chinese people reveal common difficulties in forming relationships: increasingly fixed and narrow social circles (cited by 50.7%), a tendency to be “宅” (zhái – a homebody, preferring to stay in, cited by 47.5%), a perceived lack of skill in self-expression (46.0%), excessive time spent online encroaching on real-world interactions (44.7%), limited channels for meeting new people (43.4%), and simply not knowing how to interact effectively with the opposite sex (41.7%).25 The relentless demands of work also leave many with little time or energy for socializing (29.3%).
The very language used to describe relationships is also evolving. The shift from “恋爱” (liàn’ài – romantic love, often implying a more traditional courtship with expectations of progression towards marriage) to “亲密关系” (qīnmì guānxì – intimate relationship) is significant. As used by contemporary youth, the latter term often emphasizes the importance of maintaining individual independence and personal space even within a connection – a concept captured by the phrase “亲密有间” (qīnmì yǒu jiàn), meaning “intimacy with distance” or boundaries.26 This desire for clearly defined boundaries and less emotional burden is a recurring theme.24 Compounding these anxieties is the constant exposure, particularly through social media and online news, to negative portrayals of relationships – stories of PUA (pick-up artistry, often involving manipulation), infidelity, domestic abuse, and messy breakups. Such narratives can fuel cynicism, fear, and a general distrust towards potential partners, making the prospect of opening oneself up to intimacy seem fraught with risk.26 True intimacy, as one scholar points out, involves sharing private, vulnerable aspects of oneself that are not typically shared with others 27, a level of openness that many seem hesitant to embrace.
The confluence of these trends – the transactional nature of some dating apps, the rise of functional but emotionally shallow “dazi” relationships, and the expressed preference for “intimacy with distance” – points towards a potential “atomization” of connection and a growing fear of vulnerability. While technology offers myriad ways to “connect” superficially, it might also be contributing to a more fragmented social landscape. The “sex recession” could be intrinsically linked to a broader “intimacy recession,” where the ease of finding fleeting or activity-specific connections paradoxically makes it harder to cultivate the profound, resilient bonds that require sustained effort, emotional investment, and a willingness to be vulnerable.
Dating apps themselves occupy a complicated space in this dynamic. They emerged to address a genuine need: the increasing difficulty of meeting potential partners in large, impersonal urban environments where traditional community ties and organic social circles are weakening.25 However, the very design and functionality of some apps (e.g., the emphasis on appearance, the rapid-fire swiping mechanism) and the negative behaviors they can facilitate (ghosting, superficiality, scams) may inadvertently exacerbate feelings of cynicism, objectification, and disillusionment about dating.21 The notable user shift towards interest-based platforms like Soul 21, which prioritize personality and shared hobbies, indicates a yearning for something deeper than surface-level attraction, a desire for that “soul resonance”.16 Yet, even these platforms operate within the broader challenges of online interaction, such as the difficulty of verifying authenticity and building genuine trust in a virtual space. Technology, therefore, is not a simple panacea for loneliness or social isolation. Instead, it acts as a powerful and complex mediator of modern relationships, reflecting, and at times amplifying, pre-existing societal anxieties about intimacy, trust, and the very nature of connection in the 21st century. The ways in which young Chinese people engage with these digital tools offer a fascinating, and sometimes troubling, window into their evolving strategies for navigating the complexities of forming relationships in the modern age.
The individual choices and societal trends contributing to China’s “sex recession” are not occurring in a vacuum. They cast a long and complex demographic shadow, with profound implications for the nation’s future. The statistics are stark and underscore the scale of this transformation.
As previously noted, national marriage registrations have plummeted from over 13 million in 2013 to a projected 6.106 million in 2024.1 Alongside this, the national birth rate has fallen dramatically, from 19.7 per thousand in 1991 to just 6.77 per thousand in 2022.3 Perhaps most alarmingly, China’s total fertility rate (TFR) – the average number of children a woman is expected to have in her lifetime – has reportedly dropped to an unprecedented low of 1.0.5 This figure is significantly below the 1.5 TFR often cited as a “warning line” for severe demographic imbalance and is less than half the 2.1 TFR required for generational replacement. Consequently, China’s population officially began to shrink in 2022 for the first time in six decades, a turning point with far-reaching consequences.4
These deeply personal decisions about intimacy, marriage, and childbearing, when aggregated, translate into macro-level economic and social tremors. The most immediate consequence is an accelerating aging of the population coupled with a shrinking workforce. Fewer births and longer lifespans mean a smaller cohort of young workers available to support a rapidly growing elderly population.28 This demographic imbalance places immense strain on existing social systems, including pension funds, healthcare services, and elder care facilities, which were largely designed for a different demographic reality.28
The economic impacts are also a significant concern. A shrinking and aging workforce can potentially dampen innovation, as younger populations are often considered more dynamic and entrepreneurial. Domestic consumption patterns may also shift, with fewer young families meaning reduced spending on associated goods and services, from baby products to larger homes. This could, in turn, affect overall economic growth rates.5 The concept of a “low-desire society,” initially observed in Japan, extends beyond personal relationships to consumption habits, potentially leading to reduced consumer spending if younger generations become more risk-averse and less materialistic.28
Yet, amidst these concerns, new economic formations are emerging. The “single economy” in China is burgeoning, catering to the nation’s vast and growing number of single adults – estimated at 240 million in 2018, with over 77 million living alone, a figure projected to approach 100 million by 2021.7 This has spurred the rise of businesses offering solo dining options (“一人食” – yī rén shí), personalized travel packages for individuals, smaller-sized home appliances tailored for single-person households, and even AI-powered companion devices designed to alleviate loneliness.7
The Chinese government is acutely aware of these demographic shifts and their potential ramifications. This concern has led to the rollout of various pro-natalist policies and incentives aimed at encouraging marriage and childbirth. These range from local government initiatives offering cash rewards for young brides 31 to broader calls for improving fertility support systems, such as extending maternity leave and facilitating childcare.28 However, the efficacy of these measures remains a subject of debate. Many critics argue that they often fail to address the deep-seated economic anxieties, the profound cultural shifts in gender roles and individual aspirations, and the intense work pressures that underlie the “sex recession.” As one particularly pointed netizen commented in response to official “催婚” (cuīhūn – marriage-pushing) policies: “If marriage were good, would you need to push it?”.31 This sentiment captures a widespread skepticism that top-down incentives can reverse trends driven by such fundamental societal changes.
Indeed, many demographic experts and social analysts believe that China is on an irreversible demographic trajectory, entering a “new normal” characterized by an aging and, for the foreseeable future, potentially shrinking population.2 The current trends – falling marriage and birth rates, and by extension, the “sex recession” – are not superficial fluctuations easily corrected by simple policy tweaks. They are the result of fundamental structural changes in Chinese society: persistent economic pressures, the transformative rise of female education and agency, the global spread of individualistic values, and the complex impact of technology. Therefore, even if pro-natalist policies achieve marginal successes, the underlying societal conditions that discourage traditional family formation and intense, committed intimacy are likely to remain largely unaddressed.
In this context, the societal focus may gradually need to shift. Rather than solely attempting a complete reversal of the “sex recession” and its demographic consequences, a more pragmatic approach might involve adapting to this new reality. This would entail concerted efforts to mitigate the negative impacts – for example, on the workforce through automation and skills upgrading, and on social security systems through careful reform – while also finding new models for social support, elder care, and sustainable economic vitality in an aging society.
The burgeoning “single economy” itself plays a complex role in this evolving landscape. It is, on one hand, a clear market response and a form of societal adaptation to the increasing prevalence of single-person households and more individualistic lifestyles.7 By providing a wide array of products, services, and experiences tailored to the needs and desires of single individuals, this economy undeniably makes single life more convenient, enjoyable, and socially validated. However, this very normalization and catering to singlehood might, in an unintended feedback loop, reduce the perceived social or practical urgency for individuals to partner up or marry, especially if their needs for companionship, entertainment, and daily convenience are increasingly met through market-based solutions or alternative social arrangements. The “single economy,” therefore, arises as a consequence of increasing singlehood, but by making single life more viable and attractive, it can also subtly reinforce the trend. This further embeds the “sex recession” and its associated lifestyle choices not as a temporary deviation, but as potentially enduring features of contemporary Chinese society.
The phenomenon of a “sex recession” among China’s youth is not the result of a single cause, but rather a “perfect storm” of interconnected pressures, evolving choices, and profound societal transformations. The relentless economic burdens and the pervasive “workism” culture leave little time or energy for intimacy. The remarkable rise in women’s education and economic empowerment has fundamentally altered their expectations of relationships and their willingness to prioritize personal and professional fulfillment. A growing allure of individualistic aspirations often clashes with traditional collectivist values surrounding family and duty. Technology, despite its promise of connection, can sometimes lead to more superficial or isolating interactions. And for some, a creeping shadow of “low desire” or societal disillusionment, echoing trends seen elsewhere in East Asia, colors their outlook on the future and the pursuit of conventional life goals.
It is crucial, however, to move beyond monolithic portrayals. The “sex recession” does not mean that all young Chinese people are abstaining from sex, love, or marriage. Many continue to form meaningful relationships and build families, sometimes with a renewed sense of purpose or by forging new, more egalitarian models of partnership. For instance, stories exist of young professionals, like a university teacher with two children, who embrace family life as both a responsibility and a source of mutual growth and joy, consciously making sacrifices and compromises with their partners to achieve a shared vision.12 The aim here is not to paint an entire generation with a single, despondent brush, but rather to highlight a dominant and concerning trend, and to understand the complex anxieties and aspirations shaping it.
What is clear is that the future of intimacy in China is an unfolding narrative, not a static endpoint. Young Chinese are not passive recipients of these pressures; they are actively navigating these complex conditions. This raises compelling questions: Will new forms of intimacy, partnership, and community emerge that are less reliant on traditional marriage structures? How will society and the state adapt to support the well-being, diverse life choices, and evolving needs of this generation? The increasing engagement with “virtual life” as a space for social interaction, and the emergence of alternative connection strategies like “dazi” culture, hint at ongoing adaptation and experimentation.13
From the perspective of an American observer living in China, these shifts are profound. One witnesses the growing pains of a nation undergoing incredibly rapid development, the intricate dance between deep-rooted traditions and the sweeping forces of modernity. At its heart, this is a story about the universal human search for connection, meaning, and fulfillment in a world that is changing at an unprecedented pace. The way China’s youth are redefining intimacy, relationships, and family is not just a collection of personal stories; it is a critical indicator of the nation’s broader social, cultural, and even economic trajectory.
While the narrative of a “sex recession” can sound bleak, focusing on decline and disillusionment, it’s equally important to recognize the unseen resilience and adaptive capacity of young Chinese people. They are not solely passive victims of circumstance. Their vocal critiques of exploitative work cultures like “996” 9, the evolution of their mate selection criteria towards deeper values like “soul resonance” over purely material considerations 16, the innovative (if sometimes fraught) ways they utilize technology to seek connection 21, and the very emergence of alternative social forms like “dazi” culture 24 all demonstrate active negotiation and adaptation to their challenging environment. Even the seemingly passive act of “lying flat” 14 can be interpreted as a conscious, albeit drastic, adaptive strategy – a form of self-preservation in the face of perceived insurmountable odds.
The “sex recession,” therefore, might represent not just a decline, but also a period of profound societal re-evaluation and individual experimentation. Out of these challenges, and through the creative resilience of its youth, new, perhaps more sustainable or individually fulfilling, models of relationships, community, and well-being may eventually emerge. These future forms of intimacy might look very different from those of the past, but they will be forged in the crucible of contemporary Chinese reality, telling a unique story of adaptation and change.
为什么越来越多的中国年轻人不肯结婚？ – 美国之音, 访问时间为 六月 6, 2025， https://www.voachinese.com/a/low-youth-marriage-rate-in-china/7421784.html
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